The disc jockey, hands folded behind his back, walked over and whispered something in his ear. The black kid looked at him and nodded. He stopped dancing and limped off the floor.
'Poor guy,' Carol said. 'His knee must be really bad.'
'His father takin' a bullet meant nothin',' Tommy said.
'You gotta have somebody die to catch a break in this contest,' John said.
It was now down to three dancers.
I figured I had enough left in me for five more good minutes. Any more, and they could use the fifty dollars to bury me. Rueben looked like he could twist all night, with or without the music.
'Let's hear it for these guys that are left,' the disc jockey shouted. 'The twisting kings of New York City.'
The Irish kid stopped dancing to applaud along with the crowd and was forced to leave the contest.
'That guy's dumber than a plant,' Johnny said.
'The DJ?' Tommy asked. 'Or the Irish kid?'
'Both,' Michael said.
'All right, boys, let's see what you got,' the disc jockey said to me and Rueben. 'You're the only ones left.'
I was soaked through with sweat, my shirt sticking to my chest and back, my hair matted to my face. My jeans were loose and the sweat around my waist made them looser. Even my shoes were starting to slip on the gym floor.
I had a few moves left and started to use them, twisting down on one knee, leaving the free leg up. Through the darkness, my end of the crowd reacted with applause and whistles.
I moved as low to the ground as I could, still twisting, then planted my hands between my legs, did a split and brought them back up to twist position.
'That's it,' Tommy said. 'That's what you gotta show 'em. They eat that Fred Astaire shit up.'
'The Puerto Rican has to make his move now,' Michael said. 'Or take the loss.'
'What happens if he swallows that toothpick?' John asked.
'We win,' Michael said.
Rueben made his move, but it was the wrong one.
With his end of the crowd clapping and cheering behind him, Rueben went down to a low position, laid his hands flat on the ground and tried a head-over flip. He made the flip, an impressive head past shoulder acrobatic move, but the soles of his shoes slipped when he landed back on his feet. He slid to the ground and fell onto his rear, toothpick still in his mouth.
I stopped dancing, walked over to Rueben, reached out my hand and helped him to his feet.
'Great move,' I said.
'I'll get you next summer,' he said.
'You almost got me this summer,' I said, shaking his hand.
The crowd closed in on us, applauding, whistling and shouting. Their screams and chants grew even louder when the disc jockey slapped a fifty-dollar bill in my palm and raised my hand in victory.
'We're rich!' Tommy shouted, rushing toward me with John, Michael and Carol fast behind. 'We're rich!'
'We can live for a month,' John said. 'Pizza. Comic books. Italian ices. The town's ours.'
'You were lucky,' Michael said to me with a smile. 'It's always better to be lucky.'
'Don't expect another kiss,' Carol said.
'I'm too tired to kiss anybody,' I said. 'I'm too tired to even walk.'
'You don't have to walk,' Tommy said. 'You're the champ. We'll drive you.'
He grabbed one of my legs and John and Michael grabbed the other, hoisting me on their shoulders, the crowd behind me still chanting their support.
They carried me through the gym, carefully lowering me past the black exit doors and out onto the street.
'Where we goin'?' I asked, tilting my head back, letting the warm evening breeze cool my face.
'Anyplace,' Michael said. 'Do anything we want.'
'We got the time,' John said. 'And we finally got the money.'
'We can go anywhere,' Tommy said. 'There's nothin' can stop us.'
We were under a street light on the corner of West 50th Street and 10th Avenue. John, Tommy and Michael holding me on their shoulders. Carol next to them, a smile on her face, slowly dancing around a garbage can.
The night and the streets were ours and the future lay sparkling ahead.
And we thought we would know each other forever.
Lorenzo Carcaterra
Carcaterra's writing career is a story in itself, a journey from journalist to screenwriter and New York Times bestselling author. He has written several feature film scripts and teleplays, including a stint as writer and producer for the NBC series, "Law and Order," from 2003-2004.
Among his most well known works are his first two books: A Safe Place: The True Story of a Father, a Son, A Murder; and Sleepers. A Safe Place contains Carcaterra's trademark pitiless portrayal of violence and drama, describing his relationship with his abusive, yet affectionate father. In his memoir, Sleepers, he relives the tough life of an adolescent in New York's Hell's Kitchen and the harrowing, brutal experience of being sent to a juvenile detention center. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution called it "A gut-wrenching piece of work… Carcaterra's graphic narrative grips like gunfire in a dark alley."
One of his recent novels, Street Boys, is a unique narrative set during the German takeover of Italy in 1943, inspired by the true story of a World War II battle. It tells the tale of children, orphaned and alone in Naples, Italy, who take on the advancing German army in one last desperate attempt to save their city.
In 1996, Carcaterra produced the feature film adaptation of Sleepers. He has since worked on other screenplays with film director Barry Levinson, including "Dreamer," a profile on the singer Bobby Darin. He has also worked on a number of TV pilots for various networks.
